A lonely story: the perils of writing in solitude

It worked for George Orwell and Henry Thoreau – but for Adrian McKinty, a retreat deep in rural Australia was a very sad tale indeed

The life of the professional novelist is an agreeable one: you make your own hours, you do your best work in your pyjamas and Ugg boots, and no boss glares at you when you have crisps and Guinness for lunch. The only occasion when things can get a little tricky is when the dreaded writer’s block comes a-calling. I’ve always liked the Charles Bukowski solution: “Writing about writer’s block is better than not writing at all.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t really work when you’re a mystery novelist. Last August I had a deadline looming and the solution to the ending of my book was nowhere in sight. I decided that I wasn’t the problem: the problem was my family, with their annoying requests for daddy time, food and so on.

To add to my hunger, cold and lack of sleep, I began to hallucinate.

Related: Why writing doesn't have to be a lonely struggle

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